Unpostable (a truth share)

(from TinyBuddha)
(or listen here)

Maybe this is unpostable because I am uncomfortable. Very. I began this as a vent with the title “unpostable” so I would remember that I wrote it to not post it. Here it is anyway…

I should be dead. I should’ve been dead in my 20’s, but I wasn’t. Now I have SonHerisme to raise so I need to make it through until he is settled into adulthood. Some days I don’t know if I can make it. But time passes and I always do. Then I feel immensely guilty for feeling the way I do because: what am I teaching my son if I value myself so little? I’m not sure that I value myself so little, its more that I do not see my value in this life other than to raise SonHerisme. Most everything else involving me is just pain. Of course, even parenting has its usual pains but it does bring so many more joys for me. I know that I am very fortunate in this regard. SonHerisme just came into the world this joyful way. I literally have nothing else bringing in or reflecting any personal value. I do see value in other things/people, though. Maybe I’m jealous of the dandelions painting the ground and the cicada music? My digestion prevents me from enjoying consuming food – nevermind the food/fat shame in my family. My digestion also prevents any blissful alcohol numbing. I’m too poor for drugs. I’m too stuck to travel or enjoy much beauty beyond my local reaches – which are beautiful of course, but limited.

It’s almost like a Socratic paradox where the more you know, the less you realize you actually know. But instead of knowing, its living. The more I know about living or have lived, the less I’ve actually lived.

Hey now – I am grateful for things. I’ve had journals and journals and journals recording my gratitude attitude. Also pointing out that no matter how dire the circumstances or how deeply I feel the loneliness, grief and pain of being, I always find something to push me through the day. Always. Courage, I suppose, because I clearly see it in some of you, so perhaps I have some as well.

As my brain was sinking into unworthiness the other day (damn you instagram, lovehate you forevah koyc!) on my self scheduled “break” outside on the trampoline (yes, instagram voyeurism whilst trampolining is a thing provided it’s a gentle tramp), MotherHerisme was crying because her ice had melted in her tumbler, SonHerisme was beginning his own meltdown over maths grades and works, plus he was pre-teen belly starving, one of the puppies vomited on the floor, front doorbell rang with another large Amazon package full of potato chips and coffee flavored peanut m&ms for MotherHerisme, breakfast and lunch dishes were sitting in the sink while a clean dishwasher was waiting to be emptied, the nurse was on her way to change MotherHerisme’s bandage(which now falls to me because the home nurse visits have expired again), I tripped over two bags full of soiled adult diapers left in front of the door by MotherHerisme so that I would take them to the trash while dodging her dirty clothes she tried to throw close to the staircase for the laundry room (MotherHerisme moves around as little as humanly possible) and I just needed to go to the bathroom… and on and on and on in case you wanted a snapshot of a typical post-lunch moment in my house of wack-a-doodely doodah.

Anywho – you get it. Minus a screaming baby and the electricity going out… chaos.

I turned around from the bags of soiled diapers and saw mud all over the floor. Scattered in clumps and smears all the way around the kitchen entryway, stopping just where SonHerisme had deposited his riding boots next to his hanging cocoon chair (which must be where he’d finally removed the boots). In that moment, that one tiny moment, I saw him in my mind’s eye, with his determined focused face grabbing onto Dusty’s mane with his left reign hand, pulling his body up to cantor and smiling with all of his everything as they galumphed up the hill together for their first intentional cantor moment (there have been unintentional cantors as well as jumps with other horses). All of the unworthy focus washed out of my body immediately. Thank you, stinky mud (at least, I hope you’re mud). Then my body forcefully reminded me that I truly had to go to the bathroom myself – probably a combo of soiled diapers and mud triggering the everythings. There’s a song I internally sing to my pelvic floor in these moments, in order to coax it into cooperation as I make for the back of the house to the bathroom. Natural birthing – amiright? Pelvic floor, pelvic floor, don’t fail me now, don’t fail me now. Pelvic floor, pelvic floor, you know I love you…. la la la la la It worked. No worries.

Then back to the doing of the things until something else swoops in and knocks my breath away pushing on my reverse heart bruises with the griefs and sadnesses.

And so go my days. Evenings are usually the most difficult for me. I just want to get dinner made, served, cleaned up, dessert the people up, grab tea for myself, shower (ending with freezing cold water natch), go to bed, read and pass out until the next day. Currently reading: A New Earth (again), Seasons of the Soul (again), Midnight Library, Amber Spyglass (again), and When the Apricots Bloom. That’s right – fiction is back!

Most nights I awaken at some point and struggle to return to sleep. Often I’m awakened by my body having some reaction to whatever. My face and pillow will be completely wet, the muscles in my face will be tired from crying in my sleep or something like that. So I know that stress is exiting me at points regardless of my conscious participation.

These days SonHerisme is soccering or tennising in the evenings, so I do get a little moment to walk around the park or watch him having fun with buddies and coaches. He is definitely a team kind of person, thankfully unlike me. I was a swimmer because there is very little noise under water and I love(d) that.

This is a hard share for me because of the things. My entire being pushes for a gentle, calm, peaceful, cozy, giggly, love existence. The physically painful unworthiness and grief moments throughout the day are gut punching paralyzingly difficult. The resets are unpredictably random and welcome reliefs. I have been thinking that at least I am feeling something other than constant shock numbing, which might be a good thing despite the pain. It does feel like my heart is continuously breaking and I will try not to fight it anymore because that truly seems to have been pointless.

How are you?

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

btw I am not so buried in my own wacky miasma where I’m rendered unaware of the world grief and its impact on all of us. COVID, racism, Palestine, guns, mental illness, fascist movements, day-to-day life hardships etc. I know I am lucky to have occasional space for my griefs. I think about all of these things outside of myself everyday too and send love out into the universe to soothe and comfort.

today’s MotherHerisme tears are brought to you by having to take a shower and also remembering that her meals work better with her medications when she is on a somewhat regular schedule

(now, as needs must, laughter by watching clips from belly-laugh inducing comedians)

We can do hard things – we are doing them already, so we might as well own that we can – go you, go!

Humble Crumble

(background photo by Kristina Paukshtite on Pexels.com)
(or listen here)

‘Bouts to get my apple crumble on, yo (the peoples like it with the creams which have been whipped). It’s been a bit cooler and rainy here = enter crumble stage left, no spotlight, just silvery greenie bluish moon light, please and thank you.

Something is feeling off at the moment. Are you feeling it as well? Not a pushy frenetic feeling for transformation or resolution, but rather a s-l-o-w movement of something.

Paraphrased, but I read something like this the other day, “If you cannot understand why someone is grieving so deeply for such a long time, then consider yourself fortunate that you do not understand,” and, “you don’t ever learn to forget your heartbreaks, you just learn how to live with them better.”

I’m not sure if I am the one putting the most pressure on myself about grief and life – I probably am.

I wonder how many of you are as well?

A sweet friend recently asked me what I am seeking. The only thing I could think of was that I’d like to have a pool. I know this isn’t what she meant, but it’s all my heart would allow to come out of my mouth. I am thinking that I cannot seek anymore. This might be why I have not followed up with finding a therapist. I do not want to introduce myself or explain myself. I do not want to talk about anything I am interested in or have ever been interested in. No hopes or dreams, please and thank you – it is just too painful. If there was a therapy where I could go and not be asked to speak but the other person would just know some things to say to me, that’s where I would sign up. Maybe we don’t even have to make eye contact. Maybe I could walk in and they could just hand me a note with some suggestions on it and we wouldn’t, either one of us, have to speak at all. Perhaps I am seeking to not seek. Seeking might seem hopeful or optimistic and my body brain cannot handle that anymore – it is too disappointing and my time is almost up.

I belong to a local single parents group on facebook (blerg, but necessary community connections) where the moderator asked us to re-introduce ourselves and what we are looking for by joining the group. I answered as honestly as my brain would allow in that moment. I joined the group because all of my local friends are either married or partnered up and I thought that joining the single parents group would connect me to people with similar parenting experiences to mine. I am not an active participant, so I have no idea if there are connections in that group for me. From the little I have seen, it seems there are not (reasons).

Pre-COVID someone mentioned to me that a DV or even a grief support group might work better for me to find connection. But, I don’t feel like I am seeking that anymore either. Fundamentally, I am not thrilled with being me, but there I always am, still being myself. Wait a hawt minute – one extraordinary exception – I love being mommy to SonHerisme. Is this too much of a burden to place on a sweet giant bear?

My grief is like groundhog day grief. It cycles through me multiple times a day every day. Some days more painful than others. Like a permanent bruise on the reverse side of my heart that will never heal, is always uncomfortable and then even more so when it gets pushed on. It is what it is and I have always made due.

What are you seeking? Are you seeking anything?

I wonder why you are reading this sometimes and I hope that your heart is not broken or that you are not feeling pain. Then I do worry that you’re reading something here that might make your heart sad and how I can help you. I cannot help, I know that I do not know you. Anyway, I hope that you are okay.

I am humbled by the wave of vaccinations we are all privileged to receive, and are receiving. SonHerisme has jab#1 with a sore arm for a day and mine are complete – jab #1 and jab #2 plus two weeks.

I am humbled that anyone chooses to read anything that I write.

I am humbled by the way the moon smiles halfway through it’s moonie cycle.

I am humbled by the rhythm of a cicada brood emerging every 17 years to do their cicada thing.

I am humbled by having had the ability to birth a life into being.

I am humbled by SonHerisme’s resilience, compassion and curiosity for knowledge and life.

I am humbled by knowing that far away (by distance and time) people are being themselves doing the things of life.

I am humbled by the person who thought to plant an apple tree, wait for the apples to be delicious, pick the apples and then send them to my co-op where I could buy them and bring them home for my crumble. Same for the oats, brown sugar, butter (which involved a mommy cow too, who probably had to sacrifice her nursing newborn), cinnamon, and vanilla people.

I am humbled by @geologistonboard ‘s Instagram post of migmatic rock exposures from an area of exhumed kohistan volcanic arc.

I am humbled by dandelion magic.

I will continue to try to be ground and crumbled, to surrender to what is and to let it be. I don’t have the strength to fight anymore and anyway I like wildflowers.

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

ps. I got new glasses for my eyeballs and I like them better than the ones I’ve been wearing since MrH times. Larger, black, hint of tortise-shell frames going around my invisible eyelashed greenie eyeballs. Anywho, I can see much better now – you’re welcome, local fellow drivers!

Poet Tree

(image origin unknown – will credit when identified)
or listen here

Welcome to the first full day of Spring and World Poetry day!

I do not know very much about poetry, but I do read it/listen to it on occasion. There is a podcast I use to help quiet my brain and body when they become too resistant to relaxation (a flowery version of anxiety, perhaps? Fuck it – it’s anxiety). I love this one particular podcast so very much because there aren’t any introductions, salutations, explanations, goodbyes, gongs, bells, monk chants, piano, raindrops etc, it is purely some guy reading poems – one poem per post. Sometimes they are very short 20 second reads, sometimes 3-4 minute reads. Because his voice is so sing-songy full of inflection with his Scottish accent, his voice and the chosen works are enough to make the listening inviting. He reads everything from Rumi to Blake to Whitman to Oliver to Sassoon to whomever. There is no bio on the applepodcast page, and I’m not sure what’s on his soundcloud page. It’s glorious – just a voice and poems. No other expectations. Perfect for me. Oh shoot! What podcast? Looking it up now – Poetry Plain and Simple by Brendan Ghazavi-Gill. Dang it. Now we know his name which takes up space. I’ll forget it in an hour. Blessed sieve brain.

Okay. I probably read or listen to some poetry every day. You probably do as well. And yes, I am going to count the Screaming Sonnets Sessions with SonHerisme as reading poetry. Screaming Sonnets Sessions (SSS – but you don’t say each letter, just ssssss like a snake) consist of taking our pocket Shakespeare sonnets outside, choosing one at random, and full-on anger screaming it into the woods like crazy. SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER’S DAY!!!!? THOU ART MORE LOVELY AND TEMPERATE…!!!! Sonnet 18, I believe. Anyway, I encourage you to try it because it is funsies. Be sure to have some hot tea ready because it does scratch the throat a bit. Also, I told SonHerisme that giant fluffy roasted marshmallows also soothe a sore throat, so if you see him, just go with me on this. Please and thank you. I like the vegan marshmallows because they have so much more flavor and a more densely luxurious texture. SonHerisme prefers the super duper ridiculous giant only-in-America marshmallows. You can get a great sparkly woodsy flavor on the outside of your marshmallow if you throw sage into your fire. Sage sparkles up like magic!

Back in the times of engagement and working outside of the home, I used to create a poet-tree every year with branches for kids to hang their favorite poems on, or pluck one off to read and share. The tree was most often made of found sticks stuck into clay in a vase – basic, easy to replenish and using already on-hand resources (as we do in these environments – if you know, you know. If you don’t know, please venmo generously to a local school/library/childcare center asap).

A favorite Lewis Carroll poem often recited (with gestures!) to children, including my own, at anytime:

How doth the little crocodile

Improve his shining tail

And pour the waters

Of the Nile

On every golden scale

How cheerfully he seems to grin

How neatly spread his claws

And welcomes little fishies in

With gently smiling jaws

A favorite by Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks)

Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Happy World Poetry Day!

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

ps I recently began following Harry Baker, poet. He is clever and has a wonderful maths poem. Google him – you’re welcome!